


The Eastern Wind

by internetname



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internetname/pseuds/internetname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Mycroft Holmes realized how attractive a man his little brother would become, it almost broke his heart. Even worse, it almost broke his nerve.<br/>It was bad enough that Sherlock was Gifted. It was a tragedy that his status in the Holmes family would offer him almost no protection from those who would seek to Acquire him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day Mycroft Holmes realized how attractive a man his little brother would become, it almost broke his heart. Even worse, it almost broke his nerve.

It was bad enough that Sherlock was Gifted. It was a tragedy that his status in the Holmes family would offer him almost no protection from those who would seek to Acquire him. (Almost every last cent of the estate had been leveraged to protect Mycroft before Sherlock had even been born.) But it was some sort of cosmic torment that his bone structure and coloring hinted at an almost ethereal beauty before Sherlock had even reached puberty.

As the day approached when he would need to leave his parents’ house for a flat in London and the (relatively minor) position in the British government that his family’s money had purchased, Mycroft sat himself in the parlor with a particularly strong cup of tea and considered a number of options.

He could disfigure Sherlock. This had many advantages. Not only would a scarred face and perhaps some sort of all-over skin condition eliminate Sherlock’s aesthetic appeal, many Acquirers still held to the superstition that the Gifted revealed inner flaws through their outer appearance—as though it were not all just transport. Disfigurement might even get Sherlock assigned as a Special, which would put him at the very bottom of the list, as long as his Gifts did not manifest too distinctly.

And there was the problem with the disfigurement plan. Nothing he could do to Sherlock’s appearance would matter a whit if he turned out to be as Gifted as, say, Mycroft or Mummy were. The boy’s dizzying intellect (when compared to most people) was already in great evidence, and his musical abilities were nothing less than at the level of a protégé. But there was going to be something else, something much more amazing, and thus much more horrific, that Sherlock would soon be showing, Mycroft was certain of it.  And it had something to do with people, other people, even strangers.

Seriously, the universe had painted a target on his brother’s forehead, and something as simple as burning his face with acid (as humanely as possible, of course) wasn’t going to be enough to protect him.

Mycroft’s next option was to buy Sherlock’s protection himself. He was willing to go into debt for the rest of his life to accomplish it, but that would make Mycroft a Gifted Acquirer, and an incestuous one at that. Any bleeding heart with a bank account would be able to instigate all manner of legal proceedings and inquiries against such a social pariah. He would be suspected of anything from treason to attempting to establish a cult, and then, in all honesty, what sort of protection could he offer Sherlock then?

Another option was to get someone else, someone he trusted, to Acquire Sherlock, but the truth of the matter was that there was and never would be anyone fitting that description.

Another option was to get Sherlock declared a ward of the state. This would require assassinating their parents (not acceptable), getting their parents sectioned and then deemed unfit (also not acceptable, though an improvement on assassination), or getting Sherlock himself deemed a threat to others and/or himself (potentially acceptable). The problem with tainting Sherlock in such a way again lay in devaluing—

“Watch out!” a high tenor voice called out a moment before a blue ball flew into the room, bounced on the floor, and smashed into Mycroft’s half-drunk cup of tea. Directly behind followed a large Irish setter with muddy paws and no regard for any objective other than the ball in question.

“Down, Redbeard!” Mycroft shouted, the full force of his Gift behind it.

The dog immediately crouched to the floor, whimpering slightly. A moment’s pause brought the last of the parade into the room: black curls over a cherubic face accented with eyes the color of sea glass, and Mycroft’s heart clenched just a little tighter. The child stood there a moment, lips quivering with uncertainty.

“Don’t be sad,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft looked down at the dog. Honestly, it was not as though the beast had been hurt by the command, simply compelled.  But then Sherlock was climbing into his older brother’s lap and resting that riot of hair against his chest. “Don’t be sad, Mycroft,” the boy repeated, patting him gently on the arm.

Mycroft felt comfort and affection wash around him like the sun-warmed water of a shallow pool, and in that moment of terror knew exactly what his little brother’s Gift would be.

“Oh, God.”

@@@

A bullet through the shoulder saw Captain John Watson (Gifted) sent home from Afghanistan and reassigned to the Royal Army Military Hospital at Millbank in London. It also saw the end of his personal ambitions to revel in the freedoms of an overseas military assignment, but that hardly mattered to the government who had Acquired him at the age of fourteen and sent him to medical school for the sole purpose of patching up its soldiers on the battlefield. He would look after Her Majesty’s veterans now.

And it was hardly as if John Watson held any resentment toward Queen and Country. His fate to be a healer was part and parcel of his Gift, and in truth he had loved being in the army, had loved the feeling of being a member of a team instead of a possession, had loved facing the danger of it all on his own terms with no one trying to wrap him in cotton and put him in a box. There was simply no time or energy for that sort of thing when little kids turned out to be suicide bombers and the only real difference between friend and foe is who shot at you less.

It was his own bloody fault, anyway, getting shot and then not being able to stay conscious long enough to repair the major damage. It was the infection that had been the real villain, ruining tissue while he lay in delirium. With a little luck or a stronger Gift, he’d be back out there.

God, he missed it.

“How’s the blog going?” his handler asked.

“Fine,” John said, looking around the room as though its carefully selected décor made the space comforting. It was all earth tones and soft edges.  “Really well.”

“Good.” McNeill smiled at him absently, no more interested in John’s mandated journaling than he was. Sitting in a soft chair that put her just slightly higher than her client, she looked down at her clipboard and wrote _Remains compliant_. “Any sexual interaction in the last week?”

“No.”

“Any new social interaction?”

“Yes, but I already reported seeing Mike Stamford on Tuesday.”

McNeill hummed. “Yes, he corroborated your account. He also put in for permission to interact with you, limited to public spaces, of course. Are you willing?”

John was surprised, though not too much. Mike was a kind and generous man, one of the few at Bart’s who had not objected to a single inch of red tape involved in being his lab partner and study buddy. He’d even put in the special request to shake John’s hand at graduation.

“Yes,” he told McNeill. “That would be lovely. Thanks.”

McNeill hummed again. “Perhaps after his background check we could get his wife included in your circle.”

“His wife?” John made himself not tense up at this turn in the conversation.

“Yes.” McNeill smiled warmly: an unsettling sight. “John, we’re aware you’re feeling somewhat isolated in your new environment. We all want you to be happy.”

“Okay.” John waited.

“Mike Stamford is in a very loving marriage. He and his wife are expecting a child. We feel exposure to their domestic comfort would benefit your mental and emotional health.”

“Sounds great,” John said, smiling but not overdoing it. Just a small smile, with grateful eyes. People always appreciated grateful eyes.

McNeill smiled again then looked back at her clipboard. “How many nightmares or unsettling dreams have you had in the past two weeks?”

John made sure his smile went away. Serious honesty was the expression now. He’d been too many years Gifted to have been lulled into believing that was a casual question. He’d surely been scanned.

“Five,” he said. “But I wouldn’t call them nightmares. Just memories.”

McNeill ticked the box next to the question on her form, nodded, and then smiled at him again.

“You’re doing so well, John. I know this is a hard adjustment. We’re all so proud of you.”

The smile was a little harder to conjure this time, but John managed it.

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

McNeill’s smile was vague now. She was doubtlessly thinking about her next client already. John sent up a small silent cheer as he stood.

“See you next week.”


	2. Chapter 2

There were days when what John Watson missed most about the war wasn’t the adrenalin, the sense of camaraderie, or even the knowledge he was very good at his job.

It was the spicy food.

Behind the sneeze guard, the day’s lunch steamed gently: roast chicken (thoroughly cooked), lightly buttered potatoes, green peas (unsalted), small salad of romaine lettuce and cherry tomatoes, soft drinks, juice, milk (lowfat), and water.

He took his tray with a smile and just slightly grateful eyes, then turned to the dining area, all earth tones and soft edges, before selecting an empty four-seat table at the window. Three bites of lunch in, two of the Gifted joined him, each nodding with little smiles.

The woman Gifted (empathy, late twenties, face a little lop-sided) reached for the salt, then put it back with a frown.

John took a bite of his peas, chewing five times: _All clear?_

The woman Gifted took the salt again and put just a little sprinkle on her peas: _Moderately so_.

The boy Gifted (auditory, twelve or thirteen, freckled ginger) cocked his head slightly, as though he wanted to look back over his shoulder, then took a sip of water: _You’ve heard?_

“The chicken is very nice today,” John said: _Yes._

The woman Gifted took a bite of chicken and peas together, which meant nothing. Then she took her fork and smashed a wedge of potato: _Scanners here_.

Ah, John hadn’t made the connection. The scanning activity doubtlessly had to do with their new Special.

He’d heard of Sherlock Holmes. One would be hard-pressed to find a Gifted in England who hadn’t. Hell, John had been deep in the bowels of medical school, specializing in surgery and practically a hermit, and he’d found the time to read all about it online, watch the news videos, watch, spellbound, the one permitted interview as a rather odd-looking but arresting boy of fourteen laid out in exact detail just how the corporation that had Acquired him (for what was rumored to be a record-breaking sum) had been defrauding the governments of several countries out of almost a trillion pounds over the last twenty years.

Before the scandal was done, the UK, USA, Germany, China, Korea, Brazil, and Canada had waded in with lawyers and law enforcers, almost every top-level executive of VCOM United was in jail (or worse), and Sherlock had been, on the one hand, commended by the Queen for his actions in regard to the welfare of England, and, on the other hand, condemned by the Gifted Trust Administration as a Special—in his case, as a Gifted incapable of loyalty to his Acquired.

It had taken a special session of Parliament to sort out the boy’s fate, and he was remanded to the custody (supervised, of course) of his older brother, some bureaucrat with an odd name John had to admit he didn’t remember.

After all that, John had expected never to hear about the matter again, but the truth was that Holmes had rarely been out of the spotlight for longer than a month or two in all the years since then. Regardless of the fact that his Gift was empathy (two-way, at that!), the Special had somehow become a sort of investigator for the British government, a “bloodhound” some papers called him, and a “dragon slayer” in the tabloids. John had no idea how a Gift that should have forced Holmes into being some sort of nurturing protector, most often of children or the infirm, instead was used to solve crime, but there was no question the Gifted was good at it.  He was forever helping to break up drug cartels, sniff out rapists and child pornographers, and expose plots and treasons.

Indeed, it was when no new word about Holmes was available that you knew something really scandalous was coming along. As he finished his chicken and lined up three peas in a row before eating them ( _Thank you for the news_ ), John tried to recall the last big story and wondered if it had been long enough for another revelation of crime and villainy to break.

The boy Gifted drained his water glass and set it to the left of his plate: _You’re welcome_.

John stood up to clear his tray, nodding with a smile at his table companions as his thoughts turned to making up something acceptable for his blog. Whatever was going on with Holmes, it had nothing to do with him. 

@@@

“What do you think, Doctor?” Corporal Hansen asked as John peeled off his bandages.

“Looks good,” John said with a smile. The incisions were healing nicely, smooth edges, dusky pink lines on pale skin. No sign of infection. “You won’t have much in the way of battle scars to show off to your girlfriend, I’m afraid.”

“She’s my wife. Just as well,” Hansen said with a toothy grin that fairly well hid his disappointment that John hadn’t given a diagnosis on the torn muscle and sinew underneath his relatively unblemished skin. The round had taken Hansen in the thigh, doing all the damage a Kalashnikov assault rifle was supposed to as it tore through flesh.

John wasn’t sure what sort of disappointment Hansen was hiding, though. What news did he want to hear? That he would recover enough to return to duty, or that he’d never pass muster again? Back to the battlefield or a ticket home?

“Married long?” John asked, placing his hands barely a centimeter over the wound and calling up his Gift, just a little.

“Three years now. She’s in the service too, though. Still overseas herself.” Hansen winced, apologized, and made an obvious effort to keep still as his flesh began to heat.

“No kids, then?”

“Nah. We were thinking maybe later, but there’s just such a world out there to see first, you know? I remember when we first met, it was the first thing we knew about each other, wanting to see the world.”

Hansen’s voice basically faded out for John at that point. He was inside muscle and bone, calling everything to order, imposing health, coaxing strength. His eyes closed, he saw the mess even as it tidied, until was all as it should be.

Back to the battlefield with Corporal Hansen it was.

@@@

Five days later, sitting outside Millbank’s primary “interview” room in an uncomfortable chair and making sure to avoid eye contact with three other Gifted sitting in their own chairs along the hallway, John tried to think what he had done to trip a scan.

There was a slim possibility he’d done nothing. Over half the Gifted in Millbank, including almost all the healers, had been called in over the last three days. This might be some sort of shakedown. He’d only been at Millbank for a few months. Maybe this was an annual thing.

But no one else in the hallway was acting like this was an annual thing.

A woman Gifted (healer, Asian, pretty) with incredible green eyes and black hair like a sheet of night flicked over his own glance and tapped absently on her knee four times, then a pause, then once: _Be careful_.

He looked up at the ceiling, then away: _You as well_.  A few moments later he was able to cross his legs at the ankles, look uncomfortable, and then sit up straight: _Do you know anything?_

She did nothing for a while, then tapped a brief pattern on her knee again: _Special_.

After a jolt of surprise, John felt himself relax slightly. Holmes wasn’t here to complain about his attitude or reprimand him about rushing through a report. At worst, he would be asked questions about someone else, someone who mattered. At best, the interview would be over before the lunch period ended.

“Watson, John,” a man (not Gifted) announced over the PA system.

Standing, John tucked his shirt down a bit and turned to the opening door of the interview room. A girl Gifted he did not recognize walked out, eyes wide with fear, and made sure not to touch him as he took her place in the doorway.

The room was plain and beige, with a smooth long table of pine and two upright chairs. Unusually, the window that usually hid the spectators’ galley was lit, and he could see a double row of empty seats behind it.

The only other thing to look at was the man (Gifted and then some, mid-thirties, dark and curly hair, trim black suit, white shirt, pale blue eyes) slumped in his chair behind the table.

John closed the door and stood there, refusing to feel awkward, while Holmes looked him up and down.

“Have a seat, if you like,” said a voice that rumbled out like a diesel engine, though slightly lower.

“I prefer to stand.”

A rather thick, angular eyebrow lifted. “What if I told you to sit?”

John tilted his head. “You’re not a pusher.”

“But you’re a healer.”

“Yes.”

“You’re supposed to be accommodating.”

John let himself smile. It had been a while since he’d actually wanted to do it. “And you’re an empath. You’re supposed to be soothing.”

“Is anyone ever soothed by one of these ‘interviews’?”

John shrugged. “They’re happy enough when they’re over, I suppose.”

A pale, long-fingered hand tapped out a ripple on the desk twice.

“You’re not concerned, Dr. Watson.”

“Well, you’re here, and you’d only be here for something big. I’m not involved in anything big.”

“No, all your rebellions are small.” Holmes grinned, and although it was menacing, it wasn’t shark-like.

“Even the Gifted are allowed.”

“Allowed what?”

John thought it over. “Allowed to be slightly naughty children.”

Holmes snorted slightly, and the grin thankfully disappeared. Unfortunately, he now looked thoughtful. “For so recent an ex-soldier, you have an excellent understanding of your position in life.”

“Yes. And I’m still a soldier.”

Both pale hands rose up now, steepling under the man’s chin. “And as a soldier you’re used to reconnaissance.”

“No.” John made his tone as firm as was permissible.

“No, what?”

“I won’t spy for you. This place has more than enough surveillance to keep us all in line.”

The pale eyes turned almost silver, watching him for almost a minute in silence.

“I do think it would be best if you sat down.”

“Why?”

“Because your legs are about to give out.”

John made absolutely no response other than to lock his knees.

A moment passed, and then there was something giddy, something intimate and full of desire all around him. It should have felt as invasive as it did overwhelming, but it was more like breathing deeply of a sudden intoxicating odor than being penetrated. Despite himself, John swayed slightly on his feet and found himself breathing as deeply as he could, taking in every last molecule of something beautiful and forbidden.

And then it was over. He was just standing there with Holmes looking at him, hands still under his chin.

“What was that?” John asked, and his voice trembled only slightly.

Holmes straightened up in a rush, hands flat on the table, eyes dismissing him.

“You may go now, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m not entirely sure what you just did is legal.”

That got Holmes looking at him again, but his expression was wry. Then he ran a hand through his hair before shaking it slightly out: _Are you going to report me?_

John stood there a moment more. “You said I could go?”

“Yes.”

John gave him a brief nod, turned, and exited. Out in the hall, someone’s name was called out, but he kept his eyes fixed ahead. He needed to report back to his office.

Over the next few days, he reran his conversation with Holmes over in his head a few dozen times without getting further than two conclusions. It had been bloody weird, and it was also the most interesting thing that had happened to him since he last strode across Afghan sands.

@@@


End file.
